Attica (7 page)

‘Have we got to climb
that
?’ asked Alex, in hushed tones.

‘Dunno,’ said Jordy. ‘We’ll find out when we get there. Could be we’ve found our way into a government storage place, where the army keeps all its old weapons. I mean, government buildings are massive, aren’t they? And you never get to see how big, because they won’t let you on their sites.’ His next question was almost a pathetic plea for support. ‘Did anyone see one near our house, anywhere?’

Neither Chloe nor Alex saw
the point in answering.

Chloe had not felt so helpless since that time at school when she was on what her teacher Mrs Erland had called ‘expedition training’. They had gone to Scotland, to the Highlands, to learn orienteering with maps and compasses. Chloe and her friend had set out, each with one of those items, and they had been separated by fog. Thus, though Chloe had the map, she had no compass, and the fog had prevented her from seeing the sun or stars, so she had absolutely no idea which way to go. Fortunately she had had her sleeping bag and its waterproof cover with her, and some provisions. She was eventually rescued by a search party.

All the feelings she had experienced during that incident in Scotland came flooding back to her now. Not just a sense of helplessness, but varying degrees of anger directed both at herself and others.

Jordy seemed to have rallied his own strength of spirit and asked, ‘You OK, Clo? You look a bit down. Don’t worry about that old mountain up ahead – we’ll probably find a way round it.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried, Jordy.’

‘How about you, big buddy?’ cried Jordy heartily, putting an arm round Alex’s shoulders. ‘You OK?’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ murmured Alex, without conviction. ‘Happy as a kookaburra. Hey!’ His voice brightened and he pointed. ‘There’s Nelson, out there on the horizon.’

There indeed was the chubby princely shape of Nelson, rolling along on his three pins as if he were still at home. Nelson was a cheering sight to the three children. The familiar figure barrelled along seemingly unconcerned by the plight he was in. He had something in his mouth.

‘Nelson! Nelson!’ called Chloe.

The ginger tom saw the
children and came to them. He dropped a dead mouse at their feet.

‘Oh, Nelson,’ said Chloe softly, in admonishment.

All his life Nelson had been bringing his human friends such gifts. But were they pleased? Not a bit. Never. Often, they were annoyed. There was no fathoming such ingratitude. But he still kept trying.

He allowed himself to be fussed and stroked with such affection as he had never known before then, seeing that his gift had been spurned, he picked it up again and wandered off into the gloom. It seemed so normal to the children, to see their cat rolling along without a care, that they too took heart.

Jordy especially felt that, as the eldest, he ought to show a bit of leadership. Leaders, according to the captain of the cadets he used to belong to when he and his dad were on their own, do not reveal any private concerns to their followers. Leaders show a granite jaw and talk tough. They share the problems, but not their worries. It was one thing having three heads to sort out an obstacle, but another to lay one’s fears on the shoulders of the rest of the group. Things were not
desperate
, he kept telling himself, only
matters for concern
. If they all stuck together, and used their common sense, they would come out of their travels unscathed.

So far they hadn’t found a single watch, which told Jordy something about their search. It seemed to him that the watches must all be gathered in one place, just like the war weapons ahead of them. There must be a hill of watches somewhere, which would make their search easier, he felt. After all, to look for one watch, which might be hidden anywhere, was daunting. Looking for a whole sparkling hill of watches, then sorting through them for the one they wanted, seemed a much easier task.

‘What’s that?’ he cried, alarmed, as he saw something out of the corner of his eye. ‘Over there!’

But when the other two followed
his pointing finger, all they could see was a bundle of rags under a feather-boa tree. Chloe took her list of books from her pocket. It comforted her to see how many fantasy novels there were on it and to recall how many of them ended happily.

‘If I find something to write with – and on,’ she told herself, ‘I’ll transfer the list, maybe update it, on a better bit of paper.’

‘What?’ asks the bat. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

We ought to warn them
, says the masked board-comber.
We ought to tell them to beware of Katerfelto
.

‘You need to protect the girl, is that it? You think she’s got a map in her pocket, don’t you?’

She does keep looking at that piece of paper
.

‘It might be a shopping list. A tin of boot polish. A dozen eggs. That sort of thing.’

I think it’s a map
.

‘That still doesn’t mean there’s something in it for you. No one would have a map showing a cache of Eskimo ornaments, now, would they?’

Inuit. You must call them Inuit. There could be lots of things
, mutters the board-comber,
which I could use to trade. Stage jewels. I know lots of board-combers who collect stage jewels. Porcelain figures. Stamps. Cigarette cards. If there’s treasure on that map I want it
.

‘You want?
You
want? That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it? What about those poor kids over there? They were nearly killed by those villagers, you know. Did you go and help them then? No. And why? Because you knew you could get the map afterwards, once they’d been murdered. If it’s lost up the mountain, though, you’ll never be able to get it, will you? You’re terrified of Katerfelto.’

So are you.

‘Yeah, well, I’m not after a map, so it doesn’t count.’

The bat begins swinging back and
forth on the board-comber’s ear.

Stop that
.

But the bat keeps on swinging.

When evening time comes round, the bat flies away on its usual jaunt to find food. The board-comber, in a heap by an ostrich-feather shrub, watches the children from beneath the brim of his hat. He watches and he watches. When he hears slumber, when he sees slumber, he crawls from his outer clothes as if they were a snail shell. They are left behind. Once or twice, perhaps it is practice, he darts back again, quick as a rat, into the clothes. However, the children really are asleep and besides now it’s so dark only a wolf or a bat could see him. He slithers and slides until but a metre or two from the sleeping forms. There he writes in the dust. Then he shoots back again, flashing through the darkness, to enter his coats.

‘Did you enjoy that? Your trip out?’

Wha— you back, are you?

‘Yup, full of insects.’

No burping to prove it.

‘Wouldn’t dream of such bad manners.’

Yes, well, I know you
.

‘And I know you, mine host. Here, lend me your ear, I come to bury my claws, not to prise them. The evil that men do lives after them …’

Quiet, I need to sleep
.

‘Did you warn the children?’

I left a message – messages
.

‘Uh-oh, you couldn’t resist, could you?’

What?

‘Asking them about the map.’

No, no – I never asked them about a map. I simply asked if they knew about any stamps or coins
.

‘Same thing. Same thing, old host. Now you’ll have them looking in every trunk, under every pile of books, for treasure – you realise that?’

Why should they?

‘Because children are
like combers: they collect things, especially if they think they’re valuable. You should know. You were one once. Maybe you’re still one, how would I know? I’m just a bat.’

I’m going to sleep.

‘All right, you sleep, I’ll keep watch.’

What for
? asks the board-comber, looking round nervously into the pitch-black darkness.

‘You know.’

The board-comber shudders involuntarily, as he remembers that the Removal Firm could be near. While he has no particular reason to worry, he fears he may have done something wrong without realising he has transgressed. The Removal Firm do not listen to reasoning or excuses: they act on their belief in a creature’s guilt.

‘Hey, have you seen this?’ cried Alex, on his way back to the others from a drinking umbrella.

‘What?’ asked Chloe, not very interested, thinking it might be an old steam-engine toy or something of that nature.

‘It’s a word, written in the dust.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Something about Kate somebody.’

‘It’s probably spider tracks.’

‘No,’ said Alex firmly, ‘it’s a word all right. Here, I’ll show you. Look.’ He pointed.

‘That says “Katerfelto”. That’s not a word, is it?’

‘I dunno. Look, here’s some more. “Any stamps? Any coins?”’

This made Jordy come over and look.

‘Cool,’ he said, ‘Attican graffiti. Stamps and coins. Hey, that
would
be something, gang. Treasure indeed. I once heard a man found an envelope in his attic which had a stamp worth thousands. Mauritius stamp, I think. He was an East German and very poor, so it meant a lot to him.’

Chloe said, ‘It would
mean a lot to anyone, that amount.’

‘And coins!’ crowed Alex. ‘There must be coins up here. Old war medals. This could turn out to be a treasure hunt. We could be rich.’

‘Well,’ Jordy said practically, ‘first we have to find Mr Grantham’s watch.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Chloe. ‘But picking up treasure on the way can’t do any harm.’

The two older children had forgotten completely about the first word etched in the dust:
Katerfelto
. It was overlooked in the excitement of realising they were in a potential Aladdin’s Cave. Their minds were now tuned to seeking stamps and coins. They scoured the floor with their eyes, looking for the glint of bright gold, burnished silver. Or the dirty yellow of ancient paper envelopes, perhaps held together by a rotting rubber band. This was an adventure to lift the spirits!

On then, into the sunlit-shafted world of Attica, like three lost mice within the walls of an enormous castle. At noon a dust storm rose, seemingly from a single powerful draught coming from the direction of the mountain. The grey choking motes were blown from the boards and from the cracks between, into a thick blizzard. The children tied handkerchiefs around their mouths and noses, but still the dust got into their lungs. There were cobwebs flying about too, and the light airy bodies of dead spiders, along with threads of cotton. They stumbled forward, there being nowhere to take cover, into the blinding, choking storm that threatened to suffocate them.

When they were just about
exhausted they came across a deserted Attican village, the huts of which were old cupboards. Each of the children found one and crawled inside, closing the doors. Outside, the storm continued to rage for quite a while, until it finally abated and they were able to come out of their dark holes and into the dim and gloomy light. Stillness reigned now. And they were unharmed. Perhaps not safe, for they wondered where the villagers were, who once lived in these abandoned homes.

Yet no one came, after the storm had gone, and they assumed they were in a ghost village, a ruined place, long since evacuated for some reason. It stood in the shadow of the great mountain and Chloe could feel the sadness there, in the woodwork of the cabinets and cupboards, in the piles of junk that littered the floor between the huts. Someone had once loved this village enough to decorate it with gardens of silver candelabras overhung with artificial waterfalls of crystal chandeliers. The cut-glass ‘jewels’ and ‘gems’ on the chandeliers shone like diamonds in the spears of sunlight. The candlesticks and candelabras glistened like silver flowers in their beds below these hanging wonders. Yet there were no owners to appreciate their beauty.

Where, thought Chloe, had the people gone?

‘Deserted!’ stated Jordy, as if his decision was based on a long scientific study. ‘Not a soul around.’

‘Well,
duh
,’ Alex scoffed. ‘Maybe they were massacred?’

‘Who by?’ snapped Chloe, who was already feeling nervous, having sensed that a horrible deed had taken place here.

Alex did not like to upset
his sister. He shrugged, ‘Who knows? Some other tribe, maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Attican wolves,’ Jordy said. ‘I heard them last night.’

Chloe shook her head firmly. ‘That was just the wind, howling round the eaves of the house. No, no – one thing we haven’t seen is live animals up here. Not if you don’t count the bats and insects. This is a strange world and getting stranger the deeper we go, but one thing you can count on, I reckon, is that it won’t be like the outside world.’

‘There are no wolves in Britain.’

‘Yes, there are,’ she replied firmly. ‘In zoos and game parks. And the outside world isn’t just Britain, it’s everywhere. There are still wolves up in Alaska.’

‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Jordy, still not willing to give ground. ‘We’ll just see. Something killed them off, that’s for sure.’

‘Or simply chased them away,’ Alex said, sorry that he had raised this issue now that Jordy and Chloe were going at each other. ‘Maybe it was disease or something.’

All three then looked at their hands in horror.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ muttered Chloe, wiping her palms on her jeans. ‘Don’t lick your fingers.’

Alex said, ‘Who licks their fingers?’

‘You bite your nails,’ remarked Jordy. ‘I’ve seen you.’

They found the nearest water umbrella and washed their hands thoroughly. Chloe would have liked a bath, but she knew that wasn’t possible unless they came across another water tank. She stared at the vacated village while the other two washed. If they had all been killed, or died of disease, there would be bodies. She could see no corpses. Then there was Jordy’s theory of wolves. Perhaps not wolves, but something else, something like a monster made of old kitchen sinks with washtap teeth and plugholes for eyes? Something like that would surely swallow the villagers whole and leave no trace.